Phoenix
by DreamsofaDreamer
Summary: Edward finds himself trapped by the bitter confines of his eternity. On a death wish, he follows his gut feeling and heads towards a brimming tragedy. There's a fire, and he is pleased to meet his doom. What a beautiful way to die, indeed. [Based on the nightclub fire in Santa Maria, Brazil.] *Warning: Mature Imagery*


**A/N: Hello earthlings! I was watching the news one night and caught wind of a tragedy that occurred in a nightclub in Brazil. More that 230 people passed away in a devastating fire. As usual, inspiration struck and this is the result. It's quite different, but I think I like it. Just a little O/S I found while rummaging through my notebooks. I come in peace and do not mean to offend anyone. The singer on stage definitely is not the same person as in this story.**

**Enjoy, but please remember all of those who passed.**

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There wasn't a soul last night whose mind I didn't hear screaming. Blazing bodies bended breathlessly between broken bottles.

Booze.

In the haze, the only thought I had was: _what a horrible way to die. _Every other thought invaded the private confines of my head as they had done for the past century.

Besides the acrid smell of burning flesh, the scene might have been beautiful. The walking pillars of flame scream as their skin melted from them.

At least I wouldn't die alone.

Fireworks lit up the stage in a show of pyrotechnics. All three hundred of us perfectly enthralled by this showcase of human stupidity. Like a peacock, the leading man swung the torch around as he sung in the heavily draped stage. Drunk as he was, he did a good show of reacting to the scene as if it was planned.

Too bad polyester loved fire as fire loved oxygen.

I had known more pain. Far worse than reliving the burning deaths of the people around me. Humans – so pathetically fragile. Easy to break. To die. To sleep for eons and never feel warmth again.

Still we burn. The doors locked shut because security needed to do a better job of keeping the outcasts out.

How would I prepare to die? On a pile of collapsed ceiling, the body of some man's offspring?

I welcome it dearly and for a moment I think I am saved. I wait where people climb over my body to fresh air -

I have half a mind to rip a hole in the wall to save the ants crawling all over me, crying to some god that doesn't exist. Who would save us now?

When I see her, she's just as fascinated by the fire as I am. The flames dance across her face in deeply erotic flickers. Doesn't she know she's going to die?

If I could hear her, her mind is drowned out by the sounds of the thoughts of the dead and dying. Her face is soft, unfazed by the thought of death.

I push past the crowd and kick the dead away to stand in front of her.

I ask why she stares at the fire that way. She tells me it's a beautiful way to die and I almost want to –

But I don't.

Instead I tell the beautiful woman that I could only die by fire and she says it's unfortunate because she'd rather die by ice.

In that moment, I wonder if it's much too inappropriate to laugh, but she does and I do too.

She says she won't try to avoid dying tonight, and that trying to evade it would be useless altogether. She was a practical woman and would remain that way to the grave. Till she was ash and char.

Though she begins to cry, she says she doesn't mind dying – she actually likes that she can see her death coming – she says that she likes how she'll die like the others, blackened with the heat of fire's passion.

For a twisted woman, I find her utterly divine. For a moment, I allow myself the luxury of tracing her thoughts, liking how I couldn't find a trace of her breezy voice lingering in the air between us.

She touches my face and tells me I am the most beautiful man she has ever seen. I see the confusion written on her face when she feels how cold my skin is. Always cold.

I tell her what I am and she smiles and says that we all are, one way or another. She understands, though. And she is not scared.

Her name is like a beautiful poem, a haiku. Line of five. Her hair twirls in mahogany tendrils of silk around her pretty heart-shaped face.

I ask her if she's alright if I kiss her and she tiptoes to meet my lips in an eager embrace. Her scent overwhelms me and I choke back the venom. Divine.

Divine. Divine. Divine.

If we weren't about to meet the same untimely fate, I would have lured her away and taken her life in my mouth, my throat.

Her acceptance of her death makes her beautiful. She shows no anxiety. She shows no fear.

I tell her she would be more beautiful in death and she's appalled at the idea.

I tell her death would be painful and she tells me it's nothing that won't be worth it.

I ask her if she'd like to die and she says yes.

I tell her she'd be dead for all eternity.

She looked hopeful.

I knew she would ruin me if the fire took her first. I was a selfish creature and I wanted it to be me. I did what I had to do and kissed her neck, taking her life away.

In the day of three days late, she and I emerged from the rubble of the basement, untouched by fire's lick.

Two hundred and thirty dead before the count.

Her brown hair spins wildly in the surge of wind and the minds of the dead have long been silent. Her silent mind and open eyes draw me in for a breath of burnt air.

Visions of a fire blazing as red as her eyes dancing upon her lips as she recounts all that passed.

Twisted bodies wrap around each other in a form of gruesome art. We take the survivors and tell them of our lives.

We gained a family and watched their skin seam itself together. She was in control of herself, ages beyond her youth.

We visit the funerals of all the two hundred lost.

Fireworks in the hand of a drunk for a gig at the club forced open spots in heaven for those who blazed in hell.

I ask her if she's alright, and her lips form a smile.

Her words are a thing of beauty, her mask a song of words.

What a beautiful way to die, indeed.


End file.
